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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617013">particles</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant'>allsovacant</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Confessions, Emotional Hurt, Hopeful Ending, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Narrative-ish, Not Beta Read, Post-Reichenbach, Sad, Sherlock Loves John, Spoiler: Not Major Character Death because Obviously Sherlock's a drama queen, implied mutual pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 18:53:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,302</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22617013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a year after Sherlock's funeral, that John came back to the now empty, 221b. Empty, but of his memories with Sherlock.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>particles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebuell33/gifts">Bluebuell33</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>".. But these heavy hands<br/>They're pulling me down on my chest<br/>Latching on, coloring all of my flesh<br/>Quietly, you hover over me<br/>And I fight but it feels like wasted time.."</p><p>—Particles feat. Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir, Ólafur Arnalds</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <b>How does the flat looked like when he left?</b>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">John slipped the key to the hole, turning it slowly. Both of his hands shook as he pushed the knob. He knows that when he enter, every single memory will drown him like an ocean. So halfway through, he stilled. </span>
</p><p class="p2">•••</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">John remembered one time he was there. It was when he immediately went home after receiving an sms about Mrs. Hudson being in jeopardy. It was when he got mad at Sherlock for being a machine. For being a selfish prick. For only thinking about himself. For not caring. He got mad at Sherlock because he thought the former doesn't care about Mrs. Hudson. John yelled at Sherlock. 'You—machine!' Oh, how he trembled with anger. But now, he's trembling for a different reason.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was so mad that Sherlock did everything alone again. A sacrifice, Mycroft had said. By himself. In order to save the lives of Mrs. Hudson, of DI Lestrade... to save John's life. Poor dumb John Watson out of the picture of being a best-friend. Poor John Watson lashed out to his best-friend because he was told a lie, a lie that, of all people, John believed. All for a show. Sherlock was the best actor. All for a sacrifice his best-friend did. Alone. Without him. Sherlock sacrificed alone. Right now, John was so mad at himself. He was so mad for being a coward. He was so mad for worrying what others would think. He was so mad for not taking every chance he had. He was so mad that he called himself Sherlock's best-friend, and yet he hadn't done anything. He wasn't able to do anything.But to watch that one person who had occupied his thoughts and dreams, every waking hour, fall into his death. And now, it's all too late. His Sherlock was buried six-feet under the ground. His best-friend who had saved his life once again in exchange of his.</span>
</p><p class="p2">•••</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">John swallowed the lump on his throat as he stepped into the creaking floor. The afternoon light coming from the tall windows blocked by the opaque curtains, created umbra on the worn-out carpet. John looked around at the almost empty room. The air no longer smelled like Sherlock. It has been a year since Sherlock's funeral.</span>
</p><p class="p2">•••</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The flat he remembered, for the last time, was a mess. Sherlock's mess. He remembered stumbling over the stairs. His aching leg made him struggle. Unconsciously, his limp came back the moment he turned away from the black marble headstone. Chest heaving, he stood in front of the door, waiting for Sherlock to come out of nowhere, or behind him. John's heart had beaten faster, his breathing became heavier, as he heard the sound of movement inside. He remembered opening the door with the same trembling hands, anticipation running through his fingertips. But the open door only revealed the tear-streaked face of Mrs. Hudson, cleaning and taking away, every trace of William Sherlock Scott Holmes' existence. </span>
</p><p class="p2">•••</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stepped into the kitchen, fingers tracing the slightly rough edges of the table. He smiled bitterly at the thought of Sherlock and his experiments. He visited the bathroom, Sherlock's bedroom which was empty as well. The queen sized bed long gone. A single one was replaced for the next occupants. Chest drawers gone, mirror gone. He quite remembered Mrs. Hudson telling him that Mycroft had helped on cleaning the flat. Which meant he took care of Sherlock's belongings, while Greg, kindly offered to gather his own, and offered a new residence for rent. He wasn't able to... He just couldn't. The therapist appointment had been almost everyday. Eventually, he moved out after a month. A nearby residence for rent was offered by Mycroft. He almost said no, if only Mycroft hadn't convinced him that it would be difficult to look for another flat.</span>
</p><p class="p2">•••</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His gaze lingered to the living room where the two single couch used to be. He could almost see Sherlock's silhouette perched on his favourite place. Then John glanced at the empty wall and remembered the old engraved mirror. The mantelpiece where Billy the skull rested before. The wall where the bull's head with the broken headphones were. Feeling overwhelmed, John closed his eyes, as he let go of every single ghost memory from the flat, freeing them all—All but one.</span>
</p><p class="p2">•••</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Every second with his eyes closed he felt through his bones. He was remindedof late-night dinners, sleepless hours, of laughters, of arguing over tv shows, arguing over case files, drunkenness, subtle touches, awkward moments, longing stares, until it was too much. Until one has to awkwardly retreat to their own space. Until an opportunity fora friendship to be more, had passed. Ignored. Forcefully forgotten. But John never did. He always remembered, all the what if's.</span>
</p><p class="p2">•••</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The stairs to his bedroom on the second floor loom like a monster in the dark before him. He took a deep breath, switched the stair-lights on and made his way up to the reason why he came back. Mrs. Hudson was ready to rent out the flat again. But there was a little box inside John's drawers that has his name, and Mrs. Hudson was sure that it came from Sherlock and John had to have it. Funnily enough, Greg hadn't mentioned about any possession of his left behind at all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Upon reaching the front of his door, John was once again transported to another memory he was there. It was the night after Sherlock's funeral. Drowning himself in alcohol and crying his eyes out. He shook his head, clearing his mind out of that miserable John he was. His gaze roamed around his former room until it landed on the single bed and the said box with his name written on the lid in capital blocks of letter. Finally, curiosity got the best of him. He picked up the box, opened it, and found himself staring at an old key over a piece of paper. He grabbed the key studying it for a moment and realised that it wasn't as old as he thought at all. It was a new key, but vintage-designed. Next, he took the piece of paper and read the neatly written calligraphy of an address and a number below it. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>Haynes Bee Farm, Southdown, Bentley Cottage, Wickham Hill, Hassocks, West Sussex</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <em>01273 843xxx</em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To say that John was confused, entranced, couldn't explain what he was feeling the moment he saw the address. But he knew who wrote it. And just like that, everything around him settled into place. As if the moment he saw Sherlock's written message, calmness took over his whole being. He thought of inquiring Mycroft, or Mrs. Hudson, or Greg. But he thought otherwise. Because they could've told him before what it could be about.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Plucking out his phone from his pocket, he dialled the number and waited as the call connected. And when it did, a deafening silence ensued before John heard a bit of static, followed by a ragged deep baritone voice that had the bloody nerve to mock him.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1"><span class="s1"><em>"Took you long enough..."</em> the voice said on the other line. </span>A static sound followed and then—</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"<em>Come, if convenient. If inconvenient...</em>" </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A pause and then a whisper.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">"...<em>come anyway</em>."</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His knees finally gave in, weakened. His ass meeting the bedsit. John pressed the phone closer to his ear as he clutched his other hand over his chest, tears overflowing from his tired eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And in between those tears, John stumbled of what he wanted to say. It was a lot of things, like—</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>A year of pain was worth it. Than to continue living without you in it.</em> </span>
  <span class="s1">He wanted to say.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But instead, John voiced the first three words that his heart whispered.</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <b>"I love you."</b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The title came from Ólafur Arnalds' masterpiece, Particles. From the Island Songs album. It was a really sad song. And it really inspired me to write this fic last year. But I lost my muse, so here we are, just now. </p><p>Thank you, once again, for reading and leaving a future comment if you have one. The ending of this work wasn't supposed to be like it, but John and Sherlock once again interfered with the very sad ending I wanted. Hence... Cheers! x</p></blockquote></div></div>
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